Last Gift
by Letting The Rain In
Summary: Scott comes to appreciate his mothers last gift to him and his brothers.


**This little one shot has absolutely nothing to do with my other story 'Back to Basics'. However, it could tie in with 'Rounds', if you squint and turn your head.**

As Alan Tracy's life began, his mothers ended.

As trades went, eleven year old Scott Tracy thought it was pretty sucky. The light of his life was gone and all he got in return was a stupid baby who didn't do anything but lie there asleep and lie there awake.

Where his mother was all warm hugs and generous smiles, this thing was just about as far removed as you could get without actually taking it out of the room. Scott had discussed this with Virgil, who, for a nine year old, could be pretty smart. Not scary smart like John was - even at six he was pointing out mistakes in Scott's spelling - but smart enough to get that it was no replacement for Mom.

Dad kept going on about how much it meant to the family and how they would have to look after it extra hard because it'd never got the chance to know Mom – and who's fault was that, exactly? – but then he'd ruin the pitch – and that was how Scott saw his father, like some door-to-door businessman, trying to sell his kids the idea that another brother was a totally worthwhile investment – by clearing his throat and blinking away the moisture that crept into his eye.

But Dad was Jeff Tracy and even upset he wasn't about to let his sons get away with, well, anything, and so every day after school Scott dutifully rounded up his brothers and trotted into the baby ward to stare at a plastic box which contained their mothers rather dubious 'last gift' to them.

As far as Scott was concerned, 'last gift' was just Dad trying to spruce up a lame present, like when four year old Gordon had given him a handmade clay ashtray he'd made in art class. Dad had pronounced it a masterpiece and given it pride of place on the coffee table, when really it was lumpy, lopsided and might have come in handy had Dad actually smoked. It wasn't, Virgil had told Scott later, even glazed. Scott wasn't too sure why that was so important, but Virge had recently begun an art phase and Scott had taken him at his word and scoffed right along with him.

Virgil was another reason against it, placed on the 'con' side of the list Scott had drawn up in his head. He hadn't picked up his paintbrush since Mom had died, except to scrub black acrylic over a pretty picture of the family taken last summer. Scott had later found him sobbing as he attempted to wash it off the glass again. The eldest Tracy son had found another frame for the photo, replaced it on the mantelpiece and if Dad had noticed, he hadn't commented.

As for the piano, Virgil wouldn't even look at it. He actually ducked his head and skirted around it when he entered the living room, a giant pink elephant sucking all the air from the room and screaming for attention with its deafening silence.

John, on the other hand, could stare at it for hours, like Virgil had once done and with the same wistful longing on his face. He couldn't, he'd explained seriously to his big brother, make the music work and without the music, he couldn't watch the stars. Scott had valiantly tried to follow this logic, but as always with the blond boy, he felt he fell someway behind. Nevertheless, Scott had found a CD of his fathers and filled the house with something old and plonky, which is what his mother had always played.

But everyone had agreed it wasn't the same and the music had soon been turned off and the house returned to its silence. John had glanced out of the window, staring hard and direct in concentration, sighing unhappily as he shook his head. The magic was gone, he'd said sadly and Scott had realised what, exactly, was missing. Mom would sit at the piano while John would gaze out of the window and her music would spark his imagination, allowing the all too serious, quiet boy to explore his rather suppressed creativity. John would have space adventures and discover all sorts of new things and races and without her, he was lost.

Which was just another mark against it, in Scott's opinion. He'd once attempted to tell a story to John, in the hopes it would be better than nothing, but he knew little about space and after the fifth time the boy had interrupted to correct a fact, Scott had given it up as a lost cause. He'd briefly thought about asking Dad to do it, having been an astronaut and all, but Scott had eventually decided against it. Dad was hardly the parent they'd gotten the creative sides of their personalities from and it would have probably have ended as a lecture. John might have enjoyed that, but it wasn't the point of the exercise.

Gordon was a different problem all together. While Virgil and John had withdrawn, swallowed by the silence that ate away at the house, Gordon had, if anything, become more exuberant. Used to having both his parent's attention, he found himself at a loss for something to do. Obviously, Mom was gone, but Dad had equally left, shut away in his office or busy preparing meals, laundry and dealing with guests and all matter of details Scott couldn't begin to comprehend.

And so, bereft of attention, Gordon sought it.

He coloured on the walls with Virgil's oil pastels. He built skyscrapers out of John's books, finding immense pleasure in knocking them down again and scattering them everywhere. The furniture, any furniture, had become his own personal jungle-gym and there was times Scott was sure he'd end up swinging from the ceiling lights had he not grabbed the kid. Gordon refused to use stairs when descending from his room, preferring riding the banister and sitting in front of the tv was no longer an attraction.

He'd gotten into the kitchen cupboards, and while there was nothing harmful to a child within reach, spaghetti had mysteriously begun appearing in the oddest of places. Scott now sported a scratch on his cheek having found the wrong end of a piece of pasta within his pillowcase. John refused to play with him now, having found the wet mess – and when had Gordon realised pasta went limp and sticky in water? – inside his cardboard box, which doubled as his space helmet.

Scott had walked in on the heated exchange that had resulted, John screaming that he couldn't go on a space walk with a soggy helmet and Gordon insisting he hold his breath. For a four year old, Scott had to admit the argument was compelling, if slightly flawed. The helmet had now become Gordon's bowl, and he dragged it everywhere, leaving soggy lumps of cardboard where it had snagged on the carpet and John had refused to make another one.

In short, it arriving had simply made one big mess.

Which was why, when Dad announced they were going to bring it home to actually live with them, Scott had asked him to leave it at the hospital. In hindsight, Scott wished he'd kept his mouth shut. Dad had wanted to know why Scott had said it, and suddenly all the words poured out. Scott had angrily declared he didn't want it. He didn't need something that was useless and defective – why else had it had to stay in the box? – and it wasn't going to make up for Mom not being here. Scott couldn't stop himself. The weeks of dealing with a wayward four year old, a subdued space geek and a silently angry artist had taken its toll. Add in his own as yet unlooked at grief and Scott was more than willing to snap.

He'd actually raised his voice to his father, a huge no-no in Scott's hero worshiping eyes. He'd told his Dad he was betraying Mom's memory by trying to replace her with the baby. He'd even called it, 'it'.

Needless to say, it had made for a very uncomfortable car ride to the hospital, four sullen boys and one bewildered, scared, angry and hurt father. Scott had had to sit in the back with the others, because the baby carrier was strapped into the front seat. Scott had been horrified.

That was his right, his place for being the eldest, his reward for having to put up with three younger brothers. He was old, he felt, not a kid like the others and Dad was putting this thing above him now. Insulted didn't even begin to describe how he felt. He'd only ever given the seat up to Mom.

The car was as silent as the house. Even here, travelling away from the memories, they couldn't go fast enough or far enough to escape the empty space that followed them everywhere. No music had been played and no words had been spoken until they arrived.

"Alright, boys," Dad had said, the same commanding tone as ever and perhaps the only bit of normality in this world gone crazy. "We're bringing Alan home today, and I'm not prepared to do it in silence. I want you to welcome your brother."

Scott shivered. 'Brother' didn't feel right. 'It' was easier. You didn't have feelings for an 'it', not like you did for 'brother'. You could be angry with an 'it'.

As always, though, Scott did as his father had asked him to. He shepherded the other boys into the room and turned his eyes to the box. It wasn't there. Instead a crib had replaced it, the baby lying in it, wide awake and doing absolutely nothing of interest.

A nurse was also in the room, smiling at the boys as they stood around the cot, eyes widening in surprise as she recognised their father. She was new, obviously, as they hadn't seen her before.

"There's some things I need to sort out at the desk," Jeff began in his low, gravely, warm voice. "Can I leave the boys with you for a moment?"

"Yes, of course," the nurse replied, and with a stern warning not to misbehave, Jeff left. The brothers stood around the cot, staring at it's occupant. It stared right back.

"He's not afraid of anything, this little one," the nurse chirped, more to break the silence than anything else, Scott was sure. It was something everyone did around them now, speaking too loud and with a fake smile because they were uncomfortable around the motherless boys. "You can hold him if you like."

She had been speaking to Scott, moving as the words left her lips, ducking in and scooping it from the cot, coming towards him like an avenging angel, wrath and fire and it as her weapon, all concealed behind a warm smile and sparkling eyes.

She was fast too. Scott felt a chair behind his knees, both of which buckled as she loomed over him and before he'd been able to utter a single word of protest, she'd deposited it in his unresisting arms.

Holding the baby, he found it - him - warm and shockingly solid, a real, tangible being that had a weight in his life now, whether he wanted it or not. He – it – was dressed in a blue baby grow, soft and downy, little feet kicking as he settled into Scott's awkward grasp.

Scott looked down at the tiny – impossibly tiny – face and found large dark blue eyes watching him, looking for all the world as if he'd known Scott for ever. Drowning in those orbs, Scott Tracy fell in love.

He shifted the baby so they were more comfortable, frightened of jolting him and smiled when Alan's little fingers curled around a fold of his tee shirt in a surprisingly strong grip. Dad had said he was too weak to be allowed out of his box for long, but there was clearly nothing wrong with him now. Alan's eyes hadn't left his own, and Scott felt a dopey smile spread across his lips as he grew accustomed to holding the baby.

"Hi," he whispered. "You probably don't recognise me outside the box, but I'm your big brother Scott."

Scott held his breath, frozen. He hadn't meant to say the word. He hadn't meant to shatter the fragile balance he'd been living after his mother's death, a fine line between anger and having to act strong for his brothers. But he'd said it, and now it was out in the open, he couldn't take it back. Alan was no longer an 'it', he was a brother. He was someone to protect and to be strong for.

Virgil touched his arm lightly. "Can I hold him?"

Scott had given Alan across willingly and the nurse had left with another smile. Scott sat back, shocked at himself and shocked at the power that the little life held over him. Mom had brought Alan into the world, she'd wanted him more than anything and when she could no longer have him, she'd given him to her other sons. It was a taint to her memory to not take her offering. Dad had been right, when he'd said they'd have to make up for his never knowing his mother.

Virgil, as always, seemed to know what he was thinking. "He should get to know Mom," he said quietly.

"We can show him photos," Scott suggested weakly.

Virgil shook his head. "It's not enough."

Scott nodded, knowing what the other boy meant. While Alan would be able to see her physical appearance, he'd still not know her.

"I'll paint him a picture," Virgil said. "Everything that Mom means to us, I'll put in there."

Scott glanced at him carefully. "You want to paint?"

Virgil nodded, and the 'plus' side of Scott's list got another tick.

John was clamouring to take Alan from Virgil now, and he was soon settled in his seat, examining Alan's clothing. "It looks like a spacesuit," he announced excitedly. "I think he'll like space. Look how big his eyes got when I said it. SPACE!"

"Don't shout at him," Scott gasped, but Alan simply gurgled.

"Was I this small, Scotty?" John asked, eagerly.

Scott thought back. "No," he replied eventually. "You were much bigger. But you have the same hair colour," he added as John's face fell.

"Cool!"

"My turn!" Gordon demanded, leaning over Johns knees to peer at Alan. Alan stared up at him, mouth open slightly. "Hey, he's looking right at me!"

"Probably wondering what you are," Virgil replied with a giggle.

"Can I hold him?" Gordon asked. "Please Scott, you all did."

Scott motioned for Virgil to give up his seat, settling Gordon down and taking Alan from John. He placed the baby in Gordon's waiting arms, keeping his own arms around the outside to stop Alan rolling off Gordon's lap.

Gordon, because he was four and, well, _Gordon_, soon grew bored, thrusting Alan at Scott, who hurriedly took the baby again. His heart hammered against his ribs at the way Gordon, with reckless abandon, had swung Alan through the air. Scott cradled the tiny body close. Best not to think that the air had nothing beneath it other than hard linoleum flooring.

Alan, meanwhile, seemed to have enjoyed his brief career as a projectile, lips pursing in the beginnings of a smile.

"Look!" Virgil exclaimed. "He's trying to whistle!"

The nine year old emitted a sharp whistle and huge blue eyes swung towards the sound. Overjoyed, Virgil did it again and Alan stared, wide eyed and focused. Virgil played a short tune and Alan gurgled happily, loving the sound and lifting one arm up, fingers opening and closing as if he was trying to catch the music and keep it.

Coming back in, the nurse smiled at Scott. "You can place him on the mat," she offered kindly. "It's probably quite boring to be holding him all the time."

Scott was reluctant to put Alan down, but manly pride being what it was – even at age eleven – he nodded aloofly and placed the baby where she'd indicated. She began to fence Alan in with pillows and Gordon dropped to his belly beside her.

"Do me next!" he begged. "We can play forts."

The nurse had complied, fetching more pillows from another room and Virgil had helped her stack them, dark brows drawn together in intense concentration. Artist that he was, his personality was offset with a much more serious interest in creating things more solid. Forts were his speciality, although he'd been known to stick his head under the bonnet of the car whenever his Dad was fiddling with it. John joined them, wriggling in next to his brother and whispering together with Gordon.

The fort grew swiftly, leaving Scott to wonder if the trainee nurse had resorted to stealing pillows from under patient's heads. Finally, John's head rose above the walls.

"Virge, we're fencing Alan in. Can you make a door?"

The nine year old sat back on his heels, studying the fort and analyzing the problem. He reached in and dragged Gordon out by his ankles, much to the little boy's delight, beckoning John out also. Once clear, Virgil himself entered the fort and began work, strengthening walls that would have to deal with a door. Scott was amazed when he heard his brother begin to hum, having not realised how much he'd missed the habit.

Virgil emerged soon enough, standing and dusting his hands off as if he'd actually been laying bricks and mortar. "All done," he announced. "Try her now."

John and Gordon had a quick shoving match to decide who got to go back in first, John winning by a slim margin. Gordon, diving in soon after, whooped with joy.

"Hi Alan! Hey, Scotty - he's looking at me!"

"I'm not surprised with all the racket you're making," Scott agreed, standing so he too could see the baby.

"I think he likes you better," Gordon commented. "He's looking at you now."

And he was, staring up at his big brother like Scott held the world in his palm and would give it to him if only he asked. It was as if Alan knew that Scott would always be there, to protect him, to comfort and to love.

That night, Virgil played the piano for Alan. The child, cradled comfortably in Scott's arms, once more reached out with those grasping fingers towards the sound. After several melodies, John pulled Scott to the window and proceeded to lose himself and the baby in the stars, imagining all sorts of strange and wonderful happenings, even while informing his little brother about the actual facts his musings were based on. Gordon insisted on another fort, including his brother in all aspects of his games.

When it came time to put Alan to bed, Jeff found he had four anxious little faces as his audience. "Relax," he soothed. "I've held a baby before, boys."

"You dropped Gordon," Virgil remembered worriedly. "I think Scotty should do it."

Jeff sighed, deciding to give in to popular opinion. "Alright, Scott. Come on."

Scott stood, but Gordon tugged on his trouser leg. "Wait! I have to say goodnight."

Scott carefully lowered the baby for Gordon to plant a big wet kiss on. Alan fussed a little as Gordon's face loomed over him, soon replaced by John's and then Virgil's'. Once everyone was satisfied, Scott followed his father to his parents' room. He placed Alan carefully in his crib, tucked the blanket around him tenderly and stared at the little boy.

"Think he'll do?" Jeff asked softly beside him.

Scott nodded. "He can't replace Mom," he said quietly. "But as a last gift, he's not so bad."


End file.
